The Pretender Read Free

them died in the service of his country, Simon could try to ease his own pain with the knowledge that he had done his best. Perhaps someday it would work.
    James apparently had no such concerns. Taking his new assignment in hand, James had given Simon a half-salute and a grin. He'd left, whistling, to cadge a last drink from Jack-ham behind the bar.
    Simon had never heard from him again.
    That alone would have only given rise to worry, not accusation. But it then became obvious that someone was supplying descriptions and identities of Simon's men to the opposition. One man after another turned up dead or injured.
    Simon had entertained the possibility that the leak was someone higher in the chain of command than himself, so sure had he been of James's loyalty.
    Then a large amount of money was suddenly deposited in James's account, so large that Simon had been forced to suspect that worst of all conclusions.
    His spy was spying for the enemy. There was no way to know precisely how it had happened. So many things could turn a spy, from sedition to seduction.
    He hadn't discovered the name of James's mistress, more's the pity, but he'd kept a watch on his protege's bank account. Finally, a certain little Mrs. Applequist had made her appearance, freely using James's money to set herself up in style.
    That's when Simon had made his move.
    And only this morning he'd wondered how he could gain entry into the house in Carriage Square. The chimneysweep guise had worked well for him in his youth, but that had been before he'd reached his full height.
    He'd planned everything carefully and had deliberately picked a moment when the cook was likely to be busy in which to knock on the back door. A quickly muttered, "Chimbley cleanin' for Missus Applequist," and he'd been inside.
    Once he'd been admitted, he'd slipped through the house with an eye out for the butler. Fellows like the fine silver-haired houseman downstairs would look suspiciously indeed on the arrival of a chimneysweep when none such had been ordered.
    He'd been hoping to make his later job easier with a quick casing of the layout and possibly the unlatching of a likely upper-story window. And to be honest, he'd been very curious about the lady of the house.
    Then Simon had run smack into the comely Mrs. Applequist herself. Her curvaceous form had packed quite a wallop, and it had taken him a moment to get his breath, back.
    Luckily for him, the lady didn't seem too interested in his purpose. Nor did she seem to realize that most chimneysweeps were either boys or poorly grown men the size of children. She obviously had something else on her mind.
    What was her game?
    Deciding that lingering in the bath wouldn't help him learn much, Simon stood and let the water stream from his body.
    As he rubbed the toweling over his chest, his eyes narrowed at the memory of Mrs. Applequist's face when he had stepped out from behind the screen.
    She hadn't missed a beat, but her eyes had gone wide with what Simon wasn't too modest to call appreciation. Well, it was mutual. She was a ripe little morsel herself.
    Oh, her dress was perfectly demure and her house perfectly respectable. Nevertheless, a woman built on those generous terms was more likely to be at home in the bedroom than the ballroom. A lady of healthy appetite, she was.
    And now it appeared she had an appetite for Simon. Not that he minded so much. He liked an armful as much as a handful, but he knew better than to get involved with the subject under investigation.
    Unless it became absolutely necessary.
    Agatha's panic simmered as she waited impatiently in the parlor. Who could have known being married would be so complicated?
    She tidied the tea tray for the fifth time and eyed the clock on the front parlor mantel. The ladies would be calling within half an hour and her chimneysweep had yet to come downstairs to hear his part in the charade.
    Biting her lip, Agatha reminded herself that all this would surely be worth it if it